A/N: I was shocked (and pleased) at the response to my little crackfic! But here is more. Again, I own nothing. Dang, now I actually have to make a plot, or this will just trail off.

Disclaimer: Of course I don't own them. Because if I did, Pottermore would have some little tidbits about this lovely couple's relationship. Which happened. I wish.

McGonagall POV

Minerva headed back to the Hog's Head, unable to decide if the day's events were highly enjoyable or rather nauseating. Really, "I brought you flowers"? How often had he used that line? It was really unfortunate that bit of transfiguration had been impressive; there really was no trace of roses in the bouquet. She was just being snobby. It was bad enough a fifth year had gotten into NEWT level transfiguration back in the school days. Must he excel in everything?

Clearly he wanted something, and the something was either her or something he felt she had or could do. It was more likely she was instrumental in some plan of his, since Tom rarely was dating someone in school, and when he did it was for a short time. And naturally, the cocky bastard was too secure in his abilities to con and manipulate others to think she actually knew what the hell was going on. The only problem was, she hadn't the slightest clue what direction he was taking, and there was the possibility her suspicions were completely unfounded...

However she had to admit she had enjoyed their day immensely. It wasn't often that she went out, and her dates were often disappointingly dull. Her interests in her work were unusual, she knew, and complex theoretical transfiguration was not a frequented topic on dates, though she wished it were. For this reason, this date was like eating an enormous sundae on a bed of Honeydukes ganache, smothered in caramel. And like any sweet, there were frightening calorie counts to accompany it.

Minerva McGonagall was not a witch who crashed a diet, no matter how tempting the sweet. Although, strictly speaking, she wasn't actually on a diet in the first place...wait, what did that metaphor have to do with anything? Her brain was tired.

She knew she was shamelessly making excuses to herself since something felt off about the whole thing. She just enjoyed a date in which she could discuss her interests, academic though they may be, with someone who genuinely enjoyed them and could contribute to the conversation. No, that was a lie too. Tom was an attractive prospect, and the fact that he was so attentive was a flattering change. But her doubts were too manifest for her to ignore, to the point she felt she had to take some form of action. It seemed silly to get so ruffled over such a small occurrence, but then it was better to be hypercautious and feel foolish afterwards than to be lax and have regrets...

The easy starting point to a solution would be to talk to Dumbledore. He was the only teacher that didn't fawn over Tom; therefore, he would remain unswayed and disinterested. For some reason, she didn't feel her parents would take it seriously. After all, she hadn't mentioned Tom during the school days, so they would find no reason for apprehension. She always had felt that she could trust Dumbledore as well, so she felt comfortable disclosing her dilemma to him. Her family didn't know Tom at all, so they wouldn't be much help in this situation. She'd write to Dumbledore tonight.

Dear Professor Dumbledore,

I would like to speak with you sometime tomorrow. It concerns a soon-to-be-colleague. I hope you will be unreserved. Is there any time you have in mind for the meeting?

Thanks,

Minerva

The response was not what was expected.

Minerva-

When is the earliest you can start teaching? Visit at any time convenient.

There was no signature, but she recognized the spidery writing. Why would he have her start work in December? Dumbledore, despte his age, was a picture of health...perhaps he was to go on holiday, or had a family emergency? But that didn't explain why he wrote "teaching" and not something about substituting for him with a phrase like "fill in."

"At any rate," she said aloud, "I'll find out tomorrow."

The next day she was greeted at the gate by Tom, who looked unusually shaken and downcast.

"What's going on?" she asked. When Tom merely sighed and ran a hand through his hair - something that had apparently happened repeatedly within a short span of time, from its disheveled nature - her worry began to mount.

"Dippet passed away."

His voice was composed, but he appeared preoccupied and upset. She felt suddenly numb from the knowledge.

"And Dumbledore assumes headmaster duties?" Her voice seemed foreign, as though someone else was speaking, despite her lips shaping the words. The moment seemed still more surreal as a corner of her brain distantly registered the falling snow as though dispassionately watching the scene.

Tom nodded. "Which leaves a job vacancy." He looked from the ground to her. "Perhaps a silver lining," he added, seeing her flush.

"You have an appointment, don't you?" She nodded. "I should have known; you got my hopes up momentarily." She opened her mouth in protest, feeling her face turn red, but Tom continued. "You happened to interrupt the funeral proceedings. Would you care to stay?"

"Of-of course." Armando Dippet is dead. She felt a drop on her cheek. Was it a tear or a melted snowflake? she wondered. Armando Dippet is dead. Her mind repeated it numbly, trying to make sense of it. Tom turned, and plowed through the snow, his wand dangling forgotten from his hand. She hurried to catch up. Alone time was not what she needed now.

Voldy POV

Ever the opportunist, Riddle had immediately left to open the gate once the castle was alerted to a guest's presence. First of all, it was probably McGonagall. He had a penchant for intercepting mail; something about it gave him the warm fuzzies. Secondly, the walk outside, however brief, would give him time to think and escape the depressing funeral atmosphere. He didn't need to be reminded of human mortality. Thirdly, if it was McGonagall, this was an excellent opportunity to show a compassionate side. Or at least a vaguely upset one. The fact remained that at the rate he was going, he was nowhere near building an army at Hogwarts. He'd have better luck breeding an army of rabbits to protect his latest horcrux, Ravenclaw's diadem. Now if he were smarter, he would've left it in Albania, maybe have toured the world, all while spreading his message of pureblood superiority, perhaps recruiting an army of fascist wizards along the way...

As he walked with McGonagall to the Great Hall, he pondered the implications Dippet's death would have, besides a sudden lack of access to a certain liquor cabinet stocked with absinthe (Dumbledore preferred gin). Dumbledore, he knew, would be waiting for a reason to fire him, or at least refuse to renew Riddle's contract. With good reason, true, but it was still a major inconvenience. And although Riddle was confident that he could be discreet, his plans could be kept completely hidden only up to a point. After a while, they would be noticeable. Visions of goose-stepping students entering the Great Hall, waiting for a command to act on brought an irreverent smile to his lips. Dumbledore would have warned McGonagall, by the end of the day. He was sure both completely trusted the other, so there would be more than enough challenge to keep him interested. And if all else failed, there was always a good Imperius curse at his disposal, but that was so very boring...

He would have to win over McGonagall, and through her, cut Dumbledore out of the equation. She was the very image of proper, and Dumbledore's obvious double standards meant that he'd refuse to believe anything bad of his favorite former student. Besides, it wasn't as if the object of his "affection" was repulsive; she was actually quite pretty, although the news he'd brought had given her a most unappealing pasty hue. On top of that, conducting a romance with Minerva might cause Dumbledore to lose some of his preconceived suspicions of Riddle, since he was always willing to believe in the power of love. Yes, there just might be some divine intervention in his favor. He was practically handed circumstances that suited his agenda complete with gullible people.

Perhaps there was a god.

Wait. That meant he would face divine retribution if he followed through on his plans.

No. Lord Voldemort faces no silly divine retribution. Punishment wasn't really his thing. Maybe I should make referring to myself in third person a thing! That'd be original..

"Minerva," he said, arranging his features into an understanding, sad smile. He offered his arm, which, to his surprise, she draped across her shoulders, even leaning her forehead into the hollow of his neck. Was she cold? Or did she have too much catnip during her last excursion as a feline? She couldn't possibly be this gullible.

"I suppose we should be happy," she said, voice muffled, her breath warm against his skin. "He had a wonderful career, an enviably long life...but it's so hard to believe he's gone.." How old was he? Riddle thought disdainfully. Two hundred twenty-something? Not that impressive - he could live far longer than that once sweet, elusive immortality was in his grasp...

"..I suppose it's just hard for those who knew him." he finished for her gently.

They were at the castle now, thoroughly soaked from the snow and a sight to anyone who didn't know what transpired. Riddle's penchant for all things dramatic tempted him to walk in through the main doors, save that troubling fact that it would appear insensitive. They entered from the back discreetly. McGongall was shivering by now, still leaning against his side, casting a drying charm on her tartan robes. Besides students, the room was filled with Ministry officials and what Riddle assumed were family and friends. Dippet had been an influential man after all.

During the wake, Riddle felt his mind wandering. He was deep in a daydream of an army of penguins and rabbits guarding the diadem when he felt a sudden release of pressure on his side, accompanied by the scrape of chair legs over the floor.

"Tom, it's time to go," McGonagall whispered, tugging at his lapel. "Go get yourself dried off." He rose, observing the scuffle of attendees leaving the room. McGonagall was saying something.

"What?" he said, distracted. No, not rabbits... but penguins are a possibility...Inferi are good, but I so dislike redundancy...

"I said, I'm going to see Professor Dumbledore, and-"

"Albus to you, now," he reminded. "and you were saying-?"

"Well, I wanted to tell you 'thank you' before leaving,"

He raised an eyebrow, giving her an often practiced, innocently puzzled smile, the result of countless hours spent in front of the mirror at the orphanage. How else would he escape punishment for the numerous things he supposedly did? "For what?"

"For being so..thoughtful. It was most uncharacteristic. I think you'll find I too have quite the attentive memory to detail, especially from the old Hogwarts days." She managed a smile, leaving Riddle at quite the loss for words as she turned and walked to the staircase.

Damn it, Riddle thought, irritated but somewhat appreciative. He almost felt played. Perhaps it was time to alter his approach.

A/N: I'm stuck! I need suggestions. Any tips on how to incorporate a fluffy scene without making it obvious I'm hunting for an excuse to stick one in?